


car dans mes yeux, ça se voit

by safeandsound13sreputationera (safeandsound13)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Cheating, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 06:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13sreputationera
Summary: Clarke decides to take revenge on her professor Echo by fucking her husband.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 169
Collections: The 100 Kinkmeme Round 2021





	car dans mes yeux, ça se voit

**Author's Note:**

> YEEHAWWWWWWW it's yo girl!!!!!!!!!!!!! who else??? who else is going to write echo hate THIS flavorful??? I KNOW THATS RIGHT!!!!

It's not hard to find out what places professor Blake's husband frequents.

He's coincidentally one of the professors who works down in the humanities department, and one of her friends Jasper used to TA for his class, tells her he'd often go for a drink after lectures at this little divetown bar on the edge of their college town to wind down, grade his papers. "If you saw what some of these kids come up with," Jasper had tsked. "You'd turn to drinking too."

It just so happens that Clarke would love to help him wind down.

The thing is, she is not a very vindictive person usually. The whole eye-for-an-eye thing seems kind of outdated and oversimplified to her. She's always been a firm believer in second chances, and forgiveness, and wholly being better than whoever it is that wronged her to begin with. A blow to an ego from being outdone hurts worse than any petty little steaming slice of revenge pie ever fleetingly could.

It's just that professor Blake is the shittiest professor she's ever had. She's rude, and a massive dick about deadlines, and _absolutely_ a biased grader. Three weeks ago, Clarke's mom OD'ed -- which sucks, but has happened so often now that Clarke has no mental health crises left to spare over it -- so she asked for an extension on a problem set worth more than half of their grade. She wasn't even milking the situation, or demanding to get any sympathy points, she was just trying to get an extra forty-eight hours to get her head back into the game, procure some tolerable coffee and find a spot in the hospital with a decent WiFi connection. Yet, her professor refused claiming she didn't do 'exceptions' for 'anyone' -- condescension heavily implied -- and now Clarke has to retake her fucking GenEd brainkilling, tedious, arduous trigonometry class for another semester instead of getting to focus completely on her thesis next year. She's completely ruined Clarke's life, with her perpetual scowl and face so tight from cheap botox it might as well be a brick wall. And, Jesus, what kind of self-respecting fucking woman -- a professor at that -- degrades herself and her hard-won accomplishments by taking on her husband's name? 

It's how Clarke knows that's where to hit her where it hurts. Echo Olwyn probably is no one without without her stupid, boring history-loving, older, troll-looking husband. Professor Blake was probably a shell of a woman before she met that man, a little lowgrade internet-stalking has told her as much (twelve friends on Facebook? In this day and age? Come on, just delete it at that point), and since she took everything from Clarke, she owes her at least the same courtesy. She's not above fucking undesirable, geriatric dudes to get her point across. At least it'll be over within seconds.

Three jello-shots with her roommate and an excuse about a Bumble date later, and Clarke's sitting down on a barstool at The Disciple, ordering herself a silly pink drink. She might as well lean into the whole bimbo sorority sister act if she's going to convince this man to risk it all -- his lovely spouse, half of his pension, broken hip, excetera excetera -- for her.

She's sipping on her overly sweet cocktail carefully, checking out the place from under her lashes when a man on her right catches her attention. There’s an open book on the sticky bar in front of him along with a half-empty bottle of beer, but he’s talking to one of the bartenders, sleeves of his white button up pushed up over his forearms, curly hair on top of his head tousled from what seems to be his own hands and black-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. The sight of him almost enchants her, air knocked from her lungs; the charming dark murmur of his voice too far to make out what he’s saying over the low music, but it must be amusing, from the way the bartender is smiling and nodding along to whatever it is he’s saying. She wants to _know_.

Clarke is about to look away when he glances over at her, catching her gaze. She quickly averts her eyes, but not in time to miss the way his mouth curves up slightly in an interested smirk, and her cheeks heat up despite her own best intentions. Whenever she drinks, she gets a little giggly, more easily flattered than usual in her sober impenetrable cool state of steel, and it’s embarrassing.

Her bottom lip’s drawn between her teeth as she shifts on her stool, facing straight ahead and pulling on the hem of her dress where it’s slipped up her thighs. The red, tight plunging v-neck number a seduction tactic not intended for him, but definitely working anyway. Of course it is, her tits are _awesome_.

When she builds up the courage to glance over at him again from the corner of her eyes, her long blonde hair a curtain of protection, her stomach drops with disappointment as she sees the spot unoccupied. The book’s still there, and the bartender’s back to scowling and drying glasses in the exact same spot, but the drink is gone and so is he. Clarke schools her expression back into something neutral as she reminds herself of the real reason she’s here. 

“What’s with the sad face?” Someone prompts, voice a pleasurable dark rumble, and Clarke startles once she realizes it’s _him_ , slipping onto the seat besides hers all casually. 

“My date stood me up,” she expertly beguiles, because as Clarke has learned, it’s better to stick with the truth, even if it’s a half-truth based on a lie she told her roommate to get out of one of their sorority sister activities. She's very good at cunning her way out of things.

“Maybe it’s my lucky day,” he comments, eyes gleaming boy-ishly in that way that, in combination with his simple praise, makes wetness surge between her thighs. He takes up too much space, she thinks idly, with his broad shoulders and big bicep only inches away from hers, radiating heat.

“That makes one of us,” Clarke retorts, clucking her tongue mockingly before quirking one of her eyebrows at him. At first she thinks she’s fucked up -- been too rude, too abrasive, too _much_ \-- but then he laughs, and it’s like she can breathe again.

“I’m Bellamy,” he says with a grin, and her blood runs cold before it instantly turns hot, setting her veins on fire. _Bellamy._ There is no fucking way this isn’t the Bellamy Blake from Jasper’s stories about his hard-ass, un-structured, task-oriented professor going of on useless tangents about very specific events in history every lecture and wasting everyone’s time. No way this isn’t the same Bellamy Blake married to the professor of Cuntonometry making her life a living hell on a daily basis.

God, he is not at all what she suspected. First of all, he's not old. He's older than her, definitely, but he can't be more than thirty-two, maybe thirty-three. He's not heinous either, and, in fact, it leaves her to wonder how _her_ professor even ever managed to pull him. What a downgrade. She's going to fucking kill Jasper for not ever mentioning that his _hot_ professor wasn’t a senile nerd ripe for retirement. It should’ve come up at some point, she’s sure of it, with him looking like _this_. How do you not mention something like that, even in passing? Seems illegal.

Clarke swallows tightly, disguising it by taking a sip of her cool drink. It does nothing to stop her mind from racing. Her entire body feels tight, skin prickly and overheated. “Clarke,” she relents finally, taking the hand proffered in the air in hers. 

His palm is warm but not clammy, grip firm. Her eyes dip down to his wedding ring, her eyebrows shooting up although the rest of her face remains blank. He must notice, because he scrapes his throat, taking a sip of the beer bottle clutched in his other hand. She watches him carefully, the bob of his adam’s apple and the movement of his tongue as it dips out to lick the condensation off his lips.

“I don’t mind,” she offers, voice a little hoarse. She never expected him to be a good guy, considering who he’s married to. The fact he’s hot will just make this all the more easier.

Still, it thrills her when he makes a considerate hum, searching her face with detailed interest. There’s a beat before he explains, “We’re… separated. It’s complicated.“ And she finds _that_ thrills her even more. 

He could be lying, God knows men have lied for less than a chance to fuck a pretty girl, but instantly from the look on his face she knows he’s not. It’s not so much his quiet anguish that makes her glow, instead it’s knowing _Echo_ had someone as out of her league as him, and she fucked it up. That now it’s Clarke’s for the taking. There’s some karmic justice in the universe left after all. 

“Complicated,” Clarke echoes, half-amused. That’s what Lexa claimed as soon as Costia came back from her semester abroad, what Finn told her when he explained her personality like it needed to be fixed, what her mom uttered defeatedly when Clarke finally dared to ask why she couldn’t ever be enough for her. It’s bullshit, an easy-out, a brush-over term to avoid real feelings and thoughts.

“It sounds like bullshit, I know,” he chuckles, startling her a bit. “I met her in college, after I just lost my sister. I loved her at some point, I did.” She doesn’t know who he is trying to convince. “Or at least, loved that she made me feel like -- like someone needed me again. Now that I’m older, I started realizing I can’t keep using her as a crutch when ultimately we want different things. When we are very different people.” He offers a close-lipped smile mostly to the walnut wood of the bar. “It isn’t fair to either of us.”

Fuck. He really cared about the heartless wench. She can’t say she’s sorry that’s over and in the past. She almost longs to be something, someone he cares about. So gentle, steady. Unconditional.

Clarke must be staring, because he shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I’ve been drinking all night.” He lets out a little huff of a self-deprecatory air. “Trauma-dumping isn’t very sexy.”

“I think it’s sexy,” she teases then, one hand on his shoulder, before realizing the bimbo routine isn’t very much up his alley with the imperceptible way his face falls, and adds, “I mean, do you want to know about my drug addict mom and dead father thanks to the car accident she got them into while high? My also very dead best friend who passed away from a rare heart disease right after I rejected his romantic feelings?” She arches a brow, the hint of a nervous smile on her lips. “I have lots of trauma, just waiting to be shared.”

Except, she _doesn’t_ share. Never does. Things stick with her, or she sticks with them, either way she’s always thought they’re her own burdens to carry. There’s just something about the innocent vulnerability he’s allowing her to see, to have, that makes her want to do the same, in her own emotionally constipated way. It could be an act. Maybe he read her like the kind of naive girl who would be into sweet, sympathetic and non-threatening guys like these. Everything in life has the potential to be an act, yet there’s this intrinsic unexplainable _click_ that makes her want to take a chance, a risk. Trust him.

He’s smiling too. “You just had to outdo me, didn’t you?”

“Hey,” Clarke urges, knocking her shoulder softly into his. “There’s no such thing as the Trauma Olympics.”

He squints his eyes a little, obviously amused. “But if there were, you'd win gold?”

“Exactly,” she agrees, feeling light and floaty and like she has a very fat crush on this guy sitting beside her. “My pièce de résistance could be picking up a married man after being stood up at a bar by some guy holding a fish in their profile picture, sounds kind of sad, right?”

“Not sad,” Bellamy corrects her, which surprises her, repressing a grin until he continues with, “Maybe a little pathetic though.”

She laughs, leaning forward on her elbows to shift on the stool, and then catches his eyes linger on the way her breasts are pressed together in this position, and suddenly something in the air changes -- turning heavy and hot.

His eyes darken on hers, mouth slightly parting as he studies her for a moment. After a few long seconds he suggests, “I’d offer some more free therapy, but we could also do something else.”

She purses her lips, feigning puzzlement. “Something more... practical?”

He sniffs, swallows hard, and then his big hand folds over her bare thigh, just above the knee, and it’s over. It’s fucking over. She needs to be fucked by this man or she’ll die. “Whatever the hell you want.”

Clarke worries her lip, considering it calmly as if her centre isn’t absolutely dripping with need. Her gaze flicks over the packed bar, no corner left from prying eyes. “Bathroom?”

His eyes seem focused on the hair falling over her shoulder when she looks back at him, curiously. “My friend owns this bar.” He nudges his head towards the surly bartender pouring some slam poetry snob with a sleek black bob a dry martini. “He’ll ignore me for at least a month if I defile his only bathroom.”

Her dorm’s not an option. Neither is the bed he shares with his inferior wife, although it'd be an extra sweet little bit of salt in the wound if they were to be caught by Echo in that same bed. This is no longer about her though, and she refuses to let it be. This is now about him and her, the two of them, the tension between them running thick and hot. Clarke leans closer, one elbow on the table, breath hot on his ear as his scent overwhelms her; expensive cologne and beer and _man_. “Defile me in your car instead.”

His blunt fingernails dig into the inside of her thigh briefly before he retracts it completely, maneuvering himself off his stool before offering her a hand. Clarke for the first time sees the appeal in sharing a name with this man, being his completely, being owned, and used.

Bellamy’s car is parked in the far corner of the parking lot behind the bar, and again is not like anything she’d expected. It’s a shitty old grey jeep with a dent on the front, and a door handle he has to wiggle open with a special three-short-tugs and one-big-pull method. He makes her get in the back first, then climbs in himself, haloed by one of the flickering red neon signs outside.

She doesn’t get to drink him in for very long, because he pounces on her as soon as the door closes clicks shut behind him, his mouth on hers, claiming, consuming to the point she has no choice but to open up, let him in, crowded back against the window.

Clarke can only let him. She’s not shy of taking charge herself, especially not in situations like these, but there’s something so hot about just letting him take her, whatever he wants, her core trembling with want, feeling empty as she tries to rub herself against the scratchy texture of his pants, even if the angle makes it impossible. Her panties are drenched regardless.

His hands drag down the straps of her dress, mouthing down her neck, tongue lavishing her skin, the sharp jut of her collarbone, the comfort of his warm mouth disappearing on her breast as it’s replaced by the sudden sting of a love bite.

Clarke gasps, lips parting in a silent ‘o’ as his teeth scrape her nipple, her hips bucking up against him even harder in a reflex. She doesn’t even notice him coming back up until he kisses her, hard, taking the little breath she had left. He has her all figured out, too easy, voice a hoarse grumble going straight to her cunt, “You wanna be on top, Clarke?”

Eagerly, she nods, watching him tug his shirt from his pants, not even bothering with buttons before pulling it over his head entirely. He’s gorgeous, skin smooth and brown and muscled. His warm hands waste no time and move under the skirt of her dress to hook around the elastic band of her panties, dragging them down her thighs. He leaves the tight material of the skirt rucked up high on her hips, settling into the middle of the backseat with his back against the cold leather. 

Clarke pulls her hair over one shoulder as she waits for him to unbutton his pants and free his cock. And fuck, what a sight it is; hard and thick and entirely for her. Her core aches terribly, her teeth digging into her lip so hard she nearly draws blood. All he seems to be focused on is the movement of her fingers, replacing them on the ends of her hair. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs, almost enchanted with the golden locks.

She swings one of her knees over his, catching his hand in hers with a small amused laugh that’s cut short with a small hiss as her dripping centre rubs over his dick just right. “I should be offended. I’m half-naked in your lap and it’s my hair you like best.”

In actuality, she's flattered. She's so very different from the woman he's married -- blonde, curvy, capable of smiling -- and he can't get enough of _her._ Of _Clarke_.

Bellamy quirks a brow, brown eyes gleaming, palming both of her breasts and squeezing them roughly. “I definitely like these best, don’t worry.”

A strangled moan is pulled from her lips as one of his thumbs flicks over her sensitive nipple, his mouth closing around the other, her back arching to accommodate him. She has half a mind to remember anyone could walk by, see them, her bared against him, delirious as she rubs up against him, but she doesn’t care, can’t stop herself from making these embarrassing noises.

Her thighs start to twitch so she pushes up higher, gripping his cock in her hand. Bellamy’s arm bands around her back to keep her steady as he lifts the both of them up enough so he can reach for the wallet in his back pocket, pulling out a condom. She takes it from him, rolling it on just to have an excuse to keep touching him before she lines him up with her cunt.

He takes over before she can even attempt to sink down, fingers wrapping around hers as he uses the head of his cock to tap against her clit, making her jolt as little sparks of pleasure shoot up her spine. Fuck. She’s still up high on her knees as he teases her, tits on face-level as he sucks a nipple into his warm mouth.

Her skin is starting to feel damp, strands of hair sticking to her skin and tickling her back. All these sensations, his mouth working her, his cock taunting her, his hand plastered over the small of her back, they’re driving her crazy, full of need, need _, need._

Bellamy’s hand moves up into her hair, tugging meanly to bring her face down to his mouth in a filthy kiss, possessing her, making her toes curl and one of her hands seeking out support on the leather seat right beside his head. Finally, he slides his cock towards her entrance, allowing her to lower herself on his hard length, filling up her fluttering pussy, her aching cunt, making her take the pleasure with a twinge of pain, making her feel so, so good, so full, so _much._

Her breath comes out in hitches, and it takes an immense amount of effort to start pressing up on her knees and back down, takes him coaxing her like, “Mhmm. Feels good, huh, Clarke? So tight, so wet. Can you move for me, baby? Can you show me what you like?” nosing along her neck, pressing small kisses over her cheek and mouth to get her to finally do it. 

And it’s exhausting, immediately, because she’s already so, so close, so overwhelmed with it, especially when his thumb starts pressing down on her sensitive clit, her mouth starting to make less and less sense as she pleads nonsense, “Oh, fuck. _Bellamy._ Fuck. More, harder. Yes. Please. Fill me up,” as if she’s not the one in charge of her own pleasure.

But it’s not what she _wants_ and he knows it, he knows it, but he’s making her do it anyway, until she coming, barely, breaking apart on top of him, still shuddering as he flips them over like it’s nothing, presses her into the cold leather of the car seat, one hand underneath her head and gripping her hair so tightly it hurts, not giving her any time to recover before he starts pounding into her, giving her exactly what she _has_ wanted all along. 

“You look so gorgeous like this, Clarke,” he grunts, nipping at her jaw. “Taking me, all of me, just letting it happen.” Fuck. Yes. She doesn’t know if she’s absolutely transparent or if he’s just really good at reading her. “Absolutely dripping for me, so warm, so demanding, too.” He half-chuckles, more a breath of laughter than anything else, his hand tightening enough to make her throw her head back to relieve some of the sting, expose her neck to him. “You want more, don’t you? You want it harder, faster.”

Clarke can barely let out a strained moan in response, her knees digging into his hips as every thrust sends her further towards the point of no return, shamelessly enjoying some of the pain that comes with the stretch, with the pleasure, with the pressure of his cock right on her cervix. He’s heavy and sweaty on top of her, his scent everywhere, overwhelming her, marking her.

She’s so close, again, mewling indecipherable words, her eyes too heavy to keep them open, and she knows he is too, muscles straining, thrusts turning sloppy. The fingers of his free hand wrap around her neck, and yes, God, fuck, yes, that’s everything, that’s exactly it. She thinks she croons out as much, a blur of yeses and his name.

Once they tighten just a little, just enough to make the back of her eyelids turn a starry white in the darkness, enough to leave purple crescents on her pale skin, his forehead pressing against hers as the tension coiled tightly low in her belly snaps, pushing her over the brink.

He follows right after, swelling inside of her as warmth floods her, their open mouths sharing the same stutter of hot air as they chase the high.

“Good,” she mutters, completely boneless, breathing hard. “That was so good.”

Bellamy hums in agreement, lifting off her and tucking himself back into his pants. Inexplicable anxiety floods her at once, but it’s unnecessary too, because he pulls her up along with him, tugging her against his chest, fixing her dress enough so that she’s decent in case anyone walks by, useless legs thrown over his lap as he slumps back. 

“I think I’m in your wife’s class,” Clarke confesses, hoarsely, sleepily snuggling her face into the bare skin of the junction of his neck and shoulder. To his credit, his body doesn’t react to her statement. “I know I’m in her class. I probably should’ve said that before.”

He makes a considerate noise, and when she drags up her face to look at him, his eyes are closed, glasses a little foggy. “Senior?”

“Junior.”

He flinches, just a little.

“I’m twenty-one though,” she points out, even if she knows it’s in vain, even if she knows it’s probably just the post-orgasm euphoria making her act this desperate, this _clingy_. She’s never this clingy. “We’re not that far apart, I think.”

“Does it matter?” He notes, solemn, eyes fluttering open slowly as he peers down at her. His voice is a facade, but he can’t hide it on his face though, everything and more in his expression, in his gentle brown eyes, that tiny spark of hope. 

“Maybe it does,” she insists, not caring how stupid, how reckless, how petulant it sounds. “Her class is only a third of the credits I have left. I could switch it out for a Social Science class next year.”

Bellamy considers her quietly. “A Social Science, huh?”

She gives him a sheepish look. “My friend Jasper--”

Recognition lights up his eyes. “Jordan?”

“That’s the one,” she mumbles, and then it’s quiet for a beat. Her fingers wrap around his shoulder so she can adjust herself in his lap enough so she can look at him properly, face-to-face. “History seems fun though.”

His mouth opens, closes. Then, “It is,” he finally agrees. 

The air seems to turn prickle with awkwardness all of a sudden, and regret floods her system. Fuck. This was obviously a one-time thing. This connection she felt is entirely made-up, one-sided at best. She misread everything, she’s so _stupid_ , so incredibly -- “Don’t expect me to go easy on you, though.”

A breath of relief that was stuck in the back of her throat all this time releases. “I don’t want easy.”

“Shouldn’t have expected anything else,” he muses, brushing back some hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear as his lips quirk with a smile. His gaze makes her feel warm, wanted. “Choking on the first date? My kind of girl.”

Her nose scrunches up, disgust pooling in her stomach. “I hope your kind of girl is a very general kind of statement and you’re not putting me in the same category as your wife, ever.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, half hearted. “You hate her that much?”

She purses her lips, bitterness seeping into her tone, “I don’t want to hear about the things you do with her.” She figures she could leave it at that, but she also really needs him to know that, “I’d rather you do them to me.”

He snorts, rubbing his hand down her spine comfortingly. “Trust me, Echo’s not into breathplay.” He’s staring at her hair again, where she’s brushing it back, distracted as he adds, “Besides, I’ve never -- this was -- I mean.” His tongue wets his lips nervously, and then he’s meeting her eyes, finally, making some sort of frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “It was kind of special.”

Clarke blinks up at him, dumbfounded that it wasn’t all her in head, that he thinks cheap pick-up lines and fucking her brains out and wrapping his hand around her throat to make her come is _special_ , that he’s such a specific brand of hot idiot, echoing, “Special?”

He smiles, soft and gentle and so very, “Special.”

Suddenly, spectacularly failing Trig doesn’t seem all that bad.


End file.
